


Silent Memory

by TheSigyn



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-28
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSigyn/pseuds/TheSigyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened between Jack and Ianto to bring them back together? They had a lot to talk about, but did they even need to? Set after the events of Countrycide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I don't pretend this is anything other than pure pornographic mind candy, way too sweet for words. But sometimes that's how things happen.

  
  
Memories are fluid things. Murky sewer water, cloudy with blood. Ianto could never search through his memories to know what was real and what was a dream, particularly not as Torchwood poked holes in his background and fragmented his life with trauma. Sometimes, many months later, as he was laughing with Jack as they played Naked Hide and Seek, or debating who would wear the handcuffs, Ianto wondered if anything he ever remembered was real.  
  
There was one memory of the night after that trip to the country, where the idea of man-eating aliens had been comforting compared to the cannibalistic serial killers they had actually encountered. Ianto was battered and bruised and horrified, still drowning in grief for Lisa, still confused by his relationship with Jack. But he was Ianto, and he had fought for Tosh’s safety and stood up against the madness and in the end, Jack had come blasting through the wall to save them all.  
  
The memory begins in a hospital bed in Cardiff, under observation for his concussion. Ianto opens his eyes from his nightmare silently. Heart pounding in his chest, his skin hot, his breath flutters with terror. And like an angel from god Jack is there, sitting as still as death, his hands open on his lap, his eyes fixed on Ianto.   
  
Ianto says nothing. For a few wild heartbeats he lays still, bringing himself away from that den of blood and death, putting himself back here, safe. Safe with Jack. Then he reaches out, and takes hold of Jack’s open hand. Jack’s skin is deliciously cool and so alive under Ianto’s palm. He squeezes, and his hand trembles from the pressure.   
  
Jack moves then, pulling himself from the chair onto the edge of Ianto’s bed. It’s the protective move of a father, of a friend. Ianto wants a friend. The terror of the killer’s blade against his throat, the throbbing of his head, his aching muscles, all want to be comforted. The memories are too strong. He pulls his legs up against his stomach and curls himself in against Jack. Jack silently stretches himself full length on the bed, turning to him, holding his head against his chest. Ianto lets go. It’s less of a break, and more of an overflow. All the weeks and months of exhaustion and fear and hatred pour gently from him in a waterfall. Ianto’s tears are silent, his shoulders shaking beneath Jack’s strong hands.   
  
Jack strokes his hair, presses his lips against the top of his head, says nothing. There are no words that can take away the fear, the horror, the grief. No words can bring Lisa back, heal his mind, erase the terrible sights he has seen in the last twenty-four hours. He only squeezes Ianto around the shoulders and lets him weep.  
  
There’s no sense of time, but the tears don’t last long. Even tears cannot shake this feeling. A languid despair has couched itself deep in Ianto’s breast, but it feels better having Jack there to soothe away the nightmare, just this once. Ianto shifts, and it feels better with Jack there against his body. Ianto moves again, feeling his hard body beside him. He can’t stop moving. Finally, long after he should have realized it, he recognizes that he is rubbing his erection against Jack’s thigh.  
  
He pauses, confused. But the good feelings stop as well, and the good feeling to his body had been echoed through his mind, and he needed to feel better. There was too much pain in his mind. If he had been alone, he would still have needed to touch himself, to comfort himself. But Jack is there, his savior is there, the man who crashed through that wall like an angel of vengeance and took those monsters down. More deliberately, harder and with intent, Ianto thrusts his body against Jack’s with a little sigh of hunger.   
  
Jack recognizes the difference between animal instinct and human decision and pulls away for a moment. His eyes meet Ianto’s. They glitter in the dim light, dilated with desire, but there’s a question in them. It hangs heavy between them, giving Ianto the chance to change his mind, to pull away, to decide he wasn’t sure after all. Ianto considers it. But in the end... this is Jack. Ianto wants him and admires him and hates him and needs him, and he won’t let himself stop this. He can’t.   
  
He answers the question by wrapping his leg over Jack’s hip and pulling him into a tear blessed, salty kiss.  
  
After the kiss he waits. Waits for Jack to decide for himself as they share each other’s breath, the heat between them burning. Jack’s decision is predictable, as Jack takes hold of Ianto’s head and presses him back against the pillows, kissing him passionately. Jack’s weight feels as comforting as the hand of god himself, and Ianto melts beneath him, letting Jack’s thigh press between his legs, his mouth search his as if for gold.   
  
Jack pulls away then, slides down his braces, unbuttons just two buttons before pulling the shirt — stained with Ianto’s tears — over his head. Ianto’s hands reach for his chest, the warm smooth muscled heat he has been dreaming about and trying not to remember for weeks. Jack unbuttons Ianto’s shirt, opening to reveal his soft young skin.   
  
It is soundless and pure as a dream, but the memory is very clear. This is simply silent acceptance, two running raindrops merging as they flow down the windowpane. They don’t need words. Only their bodies, melting together in the dark. Ianto lifts his hips as Jack pulls down his pants, his cock straining as he searches for him. Then Jack softly kisses it, his hot mouth caressing the straining cock, his tongue soft as silk against him. Nothing has ever felt so good, not the illicit fumbling at his clothes in the back rooms at Torchwood when he was still living a lie, not the mad dreams Ianto has been denying since Lisa’s death. Not even Lisa. Love is not desire.   
  
Desire is stronger in this moment as Jack unbuttons his trousers and slides them down, throwing them to the floor. Ianto stares at him, his straining cock, his tense hips. He’d forgotten this. He’d needed to forget it. His groin tinges at the sight, and he closes his eyes as the beauty of it all overwhelms him. He’d been denying this for so long. Denying what he really wanted. Wanting Jack had been a betrayal — of Lisa, of his family, of Ianto’s sense of self. He’d gone through the motions telling himself he hated it. Maybe he had.   
  
He’d wanted it all the same.   
  
Jack reaches for his coat, hanging on the back of his chair, and pulls out a tiny bottle. Ianto already knows what it is before Jack warms the contents in his hands and then slides the slippery lubricant up and down Ianto’s cock. Ianto hums — almost a whimper — as the sensation creeps up his stomach and clenches at his heart. The slightly chemical scent of the lube mixes with the antiseptic smell of the hospital and the heady, addictive, unbalancing scent of Jack himself. Before Ianto can let himself think he lifts himself from the pillows and wraps himself around Jack, biting at his throat carnivorously, his hands grasping at the corded muscles of his back.   
  
Jack makes a small noise, a release, almost a sigh in the back of his throat, and uses the opportunity to pull the open shirt from Ianto’s back. His hands caress his shoulders, and his mouth finds Ianto’s face, nipping at his eyebrow, his jaw, slowly pushing him back down onto the bed. Ianto lets him with a sigh, and when Jack grabs his arms he lets go, lets Jack guide him as he places Ianto’s hands on his hips.  
  
He’s very slow as he creeps over him, grabs hold of Ianto’s cock and slides it ever so gently down the crack of his ass. The lubricant makes it slippery and easy, and Jack is — always — ever so ready. Ianto’s cock finds that rough, anxious little hole and he bites his lips to keep from crying out as Jack takes him in, wiggling his hips to pull him inside. They can’t be too loud. They both know hospital doors don’t lock.   
  
Ianto’s heart is racing, his hands gripping tight to Jack’s hips as Jack squeezes him and pushes down on him, and Ianto thrusts up hungrily. The hospital bed creaks with this unfamiliar usage. Ianto can feel Jack’s weight on his hips and thighs, and his muscled thighs are under his arms. And perched on his stomach, straining but patient, is Jack’s eager cock, waiting its turn. Ianto reaches for it, and Jack closes his eyes in satisfaction as Ianto’s hot little hands grip it tightly, and their mutual thrusting serves a dual purpose.   
  
It feels good to hold Jack in his hands, just as it feels good to have Jack surrounding him, gripping him, riding him. Ianto’s thumb finds the tiny hole in the tip and rubs the head. Tiny, slippery droplets let his thumb slide atop it like a dancer. Jack’s hot balls rest on Ianto’s stomach, warm and soft.  
  
Ianto finds his eyes opening and he stares at nothing, at the white ceiling, as the sensations sweep over him, long and slow and exquisite as a blade, slicing through his visions, his horrors, his grief. Ianto isn’t looking at him, but Jack’s face is in the edge of his vision, deadly serious, eyes dusky with pleasure, but a tightness to the set of his mouth. He is determined to make up for lost time, to be sure Ianto is given everything he wants from this. To apologize for what happened before.   
  
Ianto’s face is dead, expressionless, and after several smooth, even thrusts, Jack pauses, staring down at him. He caresses Ianto’s smooth cheek, and he blinks, staring up. Their eyes meet, hold each other. There is forgiveness on both sides. Then Ianto thrusts up, and Jack’s lips split in a small smile of pleasure, and he squeezes his ass, which makes Ianto’s fists clench — around Jack’s cock.   
  
Their breath is coming hard, and things are building. This is not a time for pleasure games and sexual cleverness. This is pure sex, animal and immediate, pouring out of an overload of exhaustion and grief and terror. Jack thrusts his hips harder and Ianto strains upward, no longer trying to move his hands, just to hold him tightly as Jack forces pleasure from them both.  
  
Ianto comes before Jack does, holding his mouth still, his scream held frozen in his throat as he stops his breath, forcing his climax into perfect silence. But his hands clench and he shudders all over, and Jack grunts as he lets the pressure release him, thick white liquid spurting out over Ianto’s fingers.  
  
Ianto breathes hard as he runs his slippery hands over Jack’s freshly spent cock, and Jack catches his breath at his wonderful cruelty. His tongue between his lips he slowly pulls away, leaving Ianto’s own spent cock cool and moist.  
  
Ianto lay there, his hands sticky and his cock still, as Jack goes to the sink and comes back with a warm, damp washcloth. Gently he washes Ianto’s hands and stomach, and Ianto curls up on his side and closes his eyes. Jack lifts his pants, and only now does Ianto realize they were still around his knees.   
  
Ianto stares up at him as Jack efficiently cleans himself off, pulls back on his trousers and shirt, lifts his braces over his shoulders. Within moments, it looks as if nothing had happened. Ianto closes his eyes, half hoping maybe that was true. But he feels warm and sated, content in a way he hasn’t felt in months, possibly years, and his confusion and pain and grief are all elsewhere for the moment.   
  
Then Jack tucks the blanket over him and sits down beside him. His hand is warm and heavy on Ianto’s shoulder, and his thumb caresses him gently. Ianto opens his mouth, to start, “I....” But he doesn’t make a sound.  
  
Jack watches the hesitation, and finally removes all need for final words with a kiss. Tender, almost chaste. He leaves a peck on Ianto’s nose and caresses his cheek with his for a moment before he stands. He pours a glass of water and sets it by the bed before he leaves Ianto to sleep. At the door, he waves a slight salute, and then closes it gently behind him.   
  
Ianto is left alone in the dark. For the first time in a long time, though, he doesn’t actually feel alone in the dark. What he does feel is bone weariness and warm contentment. Still washed in Jack’s scent, on his arms, his shoulders, he curls up and falls back asleep.   
  
Maybe it never happened. Ianto could never bring himself to ask.   



End file.
